


Anti-inflammatory

by Querulousgawks



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Homophobia, Larissa "Lardo" Duan (sort of), M/M, Pining, Pre-Relationship, William "Dex" Poindexter (sort of)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-25 22:30:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7549762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Querulousgawks/pseuds/Querulousgawks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The next time they get high together, Shitty is almost Law School Wisdom Shitty Knight. Derek has shared house dibs, a Frozen-Four-worthy defenseman pairing, and a notebook full of poems with titles like <em>fine-wired </em>and <em>red as a dry fall </em>and <em>rule #1: only touch him if he's already shaking. </em>But other than that, things are pretty chill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MimiLaRue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MimiLaRue/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Charley Horse Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7224448) by [Querulousgawks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Querulousgawks/pseuds/Querulousgawks). 



Here’s the thing: Derek Nurse has always gotten a little obsessed with people who hated him. It's like - oh shit, it's simile week in his writing calendar, brace yourselves - it's like picking at the edges of a wound, finding out where the scab meets the still-feeling skin. Or like sticking your finger into the light socket a second time, maybe a third, because you can't really believe what you just felt. Or watching those supercuts of police officers testifying about how yeah, sure, they definitely were in fear for their life. Every time. 

He knows it's not healthy. He just can't look away. 

_Compassion_ , his mom-the-engineer calls it, tells him even while she worries that it's not a bad thing, that it'll help his writing. Tells him he’s looking for the real story, the humanity buried inside the hate. _Strategy,_ his mama-the-editor claims, a survival skill. Tells him you have to know how people tick if you're going to take them apart. 

They've always seen the things they love in him - he didn't need an obsession to figure that out. It makes him feel safe, when he’s under their gaze, and not quite real when he goes too long away from it.

Anyway. The real diagnosis never comes from the people who love you, right? Which means it's probably actually -

"Daddy issues," says Shitty Knight, on break from Samwell and obnoxiously full of sophomore-in-college wisdom. He's nineteen, half-naked and baked as a fucking cake (simile week!) and he's watching Derek watch one of the worst of the Andover dirtbags do a kegstand. "Takes one to know one, bro," he adds, lifting his hands in an exaggerated shrug when Derek jerks around to glare. 

A cheer goes up by the keg, and they both turn to see Reeve land smoothly on his feet, catch sight of a freshman drinking a wine cooler, and mince over to steal it with an unmistakably limp wrist. The bystanders snicker. It _is_ funny, even as the kid flushes and Derek's stomach turns - Reeve is always funny.

"Whatever," Derek says, but it's not as dismissive as he'd like it to be; Shitty's five years out from law school and his courtroom timing is already impeccable.

"Just tell me if you ever crack the fucking code, ya know?" Shitty carries on like Derek hasn't spoken. " _Vis a vis,_ ya know, dads. Issues. Bad habits formed around crushing childhood disappointments. I don't really want to spend my life collecting indifferent people to smother with affection. Ya know?"

Derek doesn't know, and he doesn't want to know, and if he did want to know he wouldn't admit it to anyone present in this room. That's his story and he's sticking to it, counselor. Still: "I'll tell you anything if you'll collect me another drink," he says lazily. "I am way too sober for psychobabble right now."

Shitty brings him a Smirnoff Ice - raspberry - because he's a smartass and also Derek's kindred fucking spirit. He’s careful to catch a couple sets of eyes as he drinks it, flexing a little so his bicep strains his shirt sleeve.

Sure enough, Reeve's lip is curling. "Chill, man, it's just a beverage," Derek calls in an exaggerated drawl, like he's higher than he is. Shitty snorts from beside him and a low laugh, nervous but real, runs through the room. 

(So sometimes it's strategy _and_ compassion, whatever else it might be. Fuck College Wisdom Shitty Knight anyway.)

The next time they get high together, Shitty is almost Law School Wisdom Shitty Knight. Derek has shared house dibs, a Frozen-Four-worthy defenseman pairing, and a notebook full of poems with titles like _fine-wired_ and _red as a dry fall_ and _rule #1: only touch him if he's already shaking._ But other than that, things are pretty chill. He blames the memory and the weed for why he asks, amidst a peaceful silence, if Shitty ever cracked the fucking code.

Shitty doesn't ask what he's talking about. His eyes flick down to Lardo, half-asleep with her head in his lap, and he smiles a little.

"Maybe this time, man," he says softly, and - yeah. That's as far as Derek’s gotten, too.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted again by fandom menace MimiLaRue, for the getting-together story.

Here’s the other thing. A person can only pine so long, you know? Before the universe gets fed up and fate intervenes. Before, say, they are paired up by alphabetical order in Drama class, the easiest Fine Arts credit Dex could get away with, and asked to perform a dialogue so alternately depressing and tongue-twisting (Ibsen, maybe) that halfway through the first practice he throws the book across the room. Dex, who never wants a break during drills on ice, who always just shoulders forward no matter how badly they fucked up: he turns his face away and mutters, "read me something _you_ wrote, it can't be worse than this." 

And he isn't shaking but he's wound up, maybe startled by himself, maybe hoping to distract Nursey from his outbreak. Which - good job, Dex, because there's no distraction like _sudden internal panic_. Because Nursey hides his notebooks after he fills them, to keep himself from obsessing over old work, and the one he just started this semester is pretty, uh, damning. Explicit. Closer to confessional than he's ever let himself get, before. But it's not like he can go rummaging through the closet for one of the old ones, so he says, stalling for time and running through titles in his head: "Your faith in me is so touching, bro."

And Dex says, "Shut up and read, Nurse." To the wall, but - it sounds so _fond,_ and Nursey can tell by the curve of his shoulders that he's smiling. Nursey sighs and digs out his notebook. “Fine-wired” is probably safe; at least it doesn’t have any red in it. He can do this, maybe, as long as Dex keeps facing away. 

He tells Dex that, not to turn around, and watches his shoulders tense up for a second. But then he nods a little, like he gets it. Then again, he topples over, stretching out in Nursey's _bed_ like Nursey's still going to have a voice after seeing him do that, so clearly he knows nothing, Will Snow. 

Nursey turns away from the long line of his back, clears his throat, and reads about sparks and humming lines of connections, how some people can pulse or shine steady or short out. People. It could be about anybody, really, as long as Nursey keeps his voice blank, and actually Dex is so still he might be asleep, so it's fine. Derek's fine.

Dex twitches, a beat after the end, as if he was going to roll over and stopped himself. Instead he says, "that's not how it works." Nursey draws in a half-laugh, trying not to wince, because _of course_ Dex would critique his scientific accuracy, what was he expecting? Except then Dex does roll over and continues: "But that's how it feels like it works. How do you do that?" His eyebrows are drawn together but his mouth is relaxed; this is his problem-solving face. Nursey can hardly stand to look at it. 

"That's, uh, poetry, I guess," he says. Eloquent.

"Read me another one?" And nope, not a chance, there are no other safe poems in this notebook, and a grocery list wouldn't be safe with the way Dex is looking at him, from his bed. Nursey grimaces and shakes his head. 

"I'll play you something, though," he says, and reaches in a fit of inspiration for his phone. "It's about the ocean, you'll like it." He scrolls through his music for The Ballad Of The Long-Legged Bait, stupidly long and full of words that only make sense in Dylan Thomas's rolling, impossible accent. It’s also pretty - suggestive, but whatever, he just wants Dex to hear it. He perches on the end of the bed, not touching, keeping his eyes on the screen so that Dex will stay relaxed.

Actually, Dex relaxes more, unfairly. It seems like he's melting into the bed, while Nursey only gets tenser, and Dex watches him more closely, and he stares more fixedly at his phone, and they make it through the whole thing in a weird, unspoken cycle that maybe Dex doesn’t even notice. So it's stupid to feel - Nursey's never felt like this, he's not the one who gets wound up like this. Whatever. His phone is shaking, a little. 

Dex sits up fluidly, staring intently at him but still so calm, and puts a hand on Nursey's wrist. He’s so close. Derek doesn’t look up. 

"That poem," says Dex, who hates overreach but always sees a drill through, "is not about the ocean." He fits his other hand against Derek's jaw, uses it to tilt his head up until there's nowhere else for Derek to look unless he closes his eyes, and fuck if he's closing his eyes. When did William fucking Poindexter get so good at this, so sure? 

If it's the old spirit of competition that pulls Nursey forward to match his sureness, to kiss him first - well. There's nothing like closing a poem where you started it, right? That's a classic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dylan Thomas, who was not talking about the ocean: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S9Er8YZhcpA


End file.
